alyson renner : d2 : fin
Jun 13, 2015 14:01:29 GMT -5
Post by goat on Jun 13, 2015 14:01:29 GMT -5
alyson renner
18
male
district 2
odair
Cry baby.
You wake up in tears again. The sobs quickly become muffled, shoving your arm over your mouth, so nobody hears you. They'd kill you if they heard weakness. Roughly, you use your other arm to wipe the tears and the snot from your face. You know what this means, but you don't want to accept it. Every night you wake up startled and in tears means you're weak. Weak. Disgustingly weak.
Footsteps sound down the hall. You scramble out of bed, throwing the covers back. With quiet feet you make your way into the attached bathroom. Locking the door, you slide to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. They can't catch you here.
The tears are still coming in waves, and you feel like a dam about to burst as you push yourself to your feet. Balancing yourself on the sink basin, you twist the knob until cold water comes rushing through. The water bites, as if it's digging into your flesh and drawing blood. You keep pressing the water to your face until your eyes don't sting with tears anymore. Peering up at your dripping face, you finally notice the heavy bags under your eyes. Those are definitely new.
You aren't bad looking, per say. Well, you are after you've just sobbed your eyes out. The whites of your small brown eyes are red, your large nose is dripping into the faint stubble around your mouth. Turning off the water, you wipe your hands off on your shirt before running them through your hair. It runs down the middle of your head in wispy strings. What color is it this week? You think it's red. Checking in the mirror confirms that.
You're so tall you have to bend your knees to look in the mirror properly. Just like your face, your body isn't bad looking at all. You've got muscle, in the arms and legs, from your daily runs. Boys like muscle, you think. Clothes don't really tend to be of importance to you. Not that you run around naked, you just don't give much thought to what you wear. Muscle tanks and plain jeans are the things for you. Sometimes you add a cool backwards hat, cause you're punk like that.
What a lie that is. You so aren't punk. Your personality is a bit.. delicate. Your eyes start to water at the smallest thing. Tripped over your own feet? Cry. Failed a test? Cry. Father spit in your face again? Cry even longer. It's a very, very dangerous personality trait. Your parents raise a hand against the smallest sign of weakness, and crying to them is the ultimate offense. You have to be careful with your tears. It's caused you to become very reserved, like a crab in a shell. When things get the tinest bit difficult, you crawl into your shell and cry.
You try to be a sweet kid. You really want to do the best for people. It's just difficult when you're so shy. You refrain from doing nice things for people because you're scared of what they might think. You're scared they might raise a hand to you. You can't even talk to people without flinching. You're jumpy, and skittish, and a crybaby. People don't want to make friends with somebody like that.
You don't like being a crybaby. Another thing you dislike about yourself is how jealous you get. You know it isn't nice to be jealous of people, but you find yourself feeling like that again and again. You're jealous of people who don't cry all the time, and you're even more jealous of people with a good home life. Sometimes you get so jealous, you get angry. You want to take your hands to the person's throat and squeeze until their face goes blue. Maybe you have more than a little pent up anger.
Everything stems from your childhood. You were born on a harsh July afternoon, with the sun beating down and all your siblings groaning. Great. Another brother. They all wanted a sister, and you became the family disappointment the moment you were born. As a child, you quickly learned the main rule in the household without it ever being spoken- Be a man. Crying wasn't tolerated. Didn't matter if you'd gotten your arm ripped off, you were going to suck that shit up. All the boys were expected to grow up and be these fabulous careers that eventually would volunteer and bring your family glory. That didn't happen.
Your oldest brother is twenty eight now. Ten years older. He was the most disappointed with your birth, and hasn't let you forget it. The second most cruel to only your father, you were met with the palm of his hand and the knuckles of his fist many a time. He thought you weren't man enough. Maybe you were close with your other two brothers, twenty five and twenty one, but they tended to take your eldest brother's side and advise you to man up.
Then there was your father. He was the worst. Every time tears would well up in your eyes, he'd slap them right off. "Why can't you be like your brothers?" He'd scream. You didn't know the answer. They were tough, and you were weak, and that was the end of it. You had no kindness shown to you, for fear you might grow up soft. You had to be a career, after all. Once you hit twelve, you were immediately enrolled in training, but you couldn't do it. You couldn't hit the training dummy without bursting into tears. You didn't want to hurt anyone, you said. They kicked you out, and your father was more than furious.
Since then, you can definitely say you've changed your mind. You'd hurt somebody. The tears and slaps and stings and bruises have left you silently angry. Your brothers are gone, off into the world, but your father remains. He's gotten worse, and so have you. You wake up in tears every night, and cry over the littlest things, and jump when somebody calls your name
"ALYSON."
Somebody bangs on the bathroom door.
You'll never get out.
"it's my party and i'll cry if i want to."
18
male
district 2
odair
Cry baby.
You wake up in tears again. The sobs quickly become muffled, shoving your arm over your mouth, so nobody hears you. They'd kill you if they heard weakness. Roughly, you use your other arm to wipe the tears and the snot from your face. You know what this means, but you don't want to accept it. Every night you wake up startled and in tears means you're weak. Weak. Disgustingly weak.
Footsteps sound down the hall. You scramble out of bed, throwing the covers back. With quiet feet you make your way into the attached bathroom. Locking the door, you slide to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. They can't catch you here.
The tears are still coming in waves, and you feel like a dam about to burst as you push yourself to your feet. Balancing yourself on the sink basin, you twist the knob until cold water comes rushing through. The water bites, as if it's digging into your flesh and drawing blood. You keep pressing the water to your face until your eyes don't sting with tears anymore. Peering up at your dripping face, you finally notice the heavy bags under your eyes. Those are definitely new.
You aren't bad looking, per say. Well, you are after you've just sobbed your eyes out. The whites of your small brown eyes are red, your large nose is dripping into the faint stubble around your mouth. Turning off the water, you wipe your hands off on your shirt before running them through your hair. It runs down the middle of your head in wispy strings. What color is it this week? You think it's red. Checking in the mirror confirms that.
You're so tall you have to bend your knees to look in the mirror properly. Just like your face, your body isn't bad looking at all. You've got muscle, in the arms and legs, from your daily runs. Boys like muscle, you think. Clothes don't really tend to be of importance to you. Not that you run around naked, you just don't give much thought to what you wear. Muscle tanks and plain jeans are the things for you. Sometimes you add a cool backwards hat, cause you're punk like that.
What a lie that is. You so aren't punk. Your personality is a bit.. delicate. Your eyes start to water at the smallest thing. Tripped over your own feet? Cry. Failed a test? Cry. Father spit in your face again? Cry even longer. It's a very, very dangerous personality trait. Your parents raise a hand against the smallest sign of weakness, and crying to them is the ultimate offense. You have to be careful with your tears. It's caused you to become very reserved, like a crab in a shell. When things get the tinest bit difficult, you crawl into your shell and cry.
You try to be a sweet kid. You really want to do the best for people. It's just difficult when you're so shy. You refrain from doing nice things for people because you're scared of what they might think. You're scared they might raise a hand to you. You can't even talk to people without flinching. You're jumpy, and skittish, and a crybaby. People don't want to make friends with somebody like that.
You don't like being a crybaby. Another thing you dislike about yourself is how jealous you get. You know it isn't nice to be jealous of people, but you find yourself feeling like that again and again. You're jealous of people who don't cry all the time, and you're even more jealous of people with a good home life. Sometimes you get so jealous, you get angry. You want to take your hands to the person's throat and squeeze until their face goes blue. Maybe you have more than a little pent up anger.
Everything stems from your childhood. You were born on a harsh July afternoon, with the sun beating down and all your siblings groaning. Great. Another brother. They all wanted a sister, and you became the family disappointment the moment you were born. As a child, you quickly learned the main rule in the household without it ever being spoken- Be a man. Crying wasn't tolerated. Didn't matter if you'd gotten your arm ripped off, you were going to suck that shit up. All the boys were expected to grow up and be these fabulous careers that eventually would volunteer and bring your family glory. That didn't happen.
Your oldest brother is twenty eight now. Ten years older. He was the most disappointed with your birth, and hasn't let you forget it. The second most cruel to only your father, you were met with the palm of his hand and the knuckles of his fist many a time. He thought you weren't man enough. Maybe you were close with your other two brothers, twenty five and twenty one, but they tended to take your eldest brother's side and advise you to man up.
Then there was your father. He was the worst. Every time tears would well up in your eyes, he'd slap them right off. "Why can't you be like your brothers?" He'd scream. You didn't know the answer. They were tough, and you were weak, and that was the end of it. You had no kindness shown to you, for fear you might grow up soft. You had to be a career, after all. Once you hit twelve, you were immediately enrolled in training, but you couldn't do it. You couldn't hit the training dummy without bursting into tears. You didn't want to hurt anyone, you said. They kicked you out, and your father was more than furious.
Since then, you can definitely say you've changed your mind. You'd hurt somebody. The tears and slaps and stings and bruises have left you silently angry. Your brothers are gone, off into the world, but your father remains. He's gotten worse, and so have you. You wake up in tears every night, and cry over the littlest things, and jump when somebody calls your name
"ALYSON."
Somebody bangs on the bathroom door.
You'll never get out.
"it's my party and i'll cry if i want to."
